


somewhere between

by earvidhel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst without a happy ending, Cindy shows up for like a second, Gen, I'm Sorry, Major Endgame Spoilers, same with cor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earvidhel/pseuds/earvidhel
Summary: Prompto Argentum can't sleep.Not that this is a new development.Or, a study in moving on.** CONTAINS MAJOR ENDGAME SPOILERS





	somewhere between

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains MAJOR ENDGAME SPOILERS for FFXV. Proceed at your own risk. 
> 
> Content warnings include major character death (character dies before beginning of fic) and grieving. 
> 
> If you guessed that the title is from Too Much is Never Enough by Florence and the Machine, you are correct.

Prompto Argentum couldn’t sleep.

Not that this was a new development. 

It had been three months. Three months since Noctis Lucis Caelum, his best friend, his brother, had walked into the throne room and hadn’t walked out. Three months since the dawn first rose upon Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis, huddled together on the Citadel steps, the first rays blinding as they reflected off the jagged remnants of marble walkways. 

The dawn had returned each day since then, basking Lucis in light, and yet Prompto Argentum found himself here: the empty halls of the Citadel. The quiet of night. The dark. Always, always, the dark. 

The chill of obsidian floors seeped through his socks and into his tired bones and Prompto had half a mind to turn back and retrieve his shoes, but his feet were already moving of their own accord, away from his shoes and the warmth of his bed. 

Prompto Argentum couldn’t sleep, and so instead he paced the floors of the Citadel like a ghost.

He took the same route every night.

Out the door of his temporary quarters and to the left. Down the sparsely lit hallway. Walk ten feet. Stop outside Ignis’ door. In the silence of the Citadel, he imagined he could hear Ignis’ soft breathing. 

Occasionally there would be voices, and Prompto would know then to skip the next stop on his journey. The youngest of Noctis Lucis Caelum’s former retinue was not the only one plagued by sleeplessness. 

Next was Gladio’s door, if Prompto hadn’t heard evidence of the man in Ignis’ room. Gladio’s snores were comforting - a telltale sign that he was inside, breathing. Safe. 

The three men had taken to sleeping in adjacent quarters in the former servants’ wing, in rooms which had been - for the moment - abandoned. They pretended that it was safer. That it would be easier to hear one another if any cried for help. 

The truth was that they were afraid to return to their former quarters, afraid to disturb the places they had once shared with their brother. So they slept here: in a quiet wing, isolated from the rest of the Citadel’s returned residents, alone but for their shared burden. 

Prompto’s feet padded up the main staircase, the limp sheet around his shoulders dragging like a mockery of a cape. Some nights he would pause here, too, and imagine that Noctis was beside him and that the King’s shoulders were draped with dark velvet instead of a thin sheet, pooling like liquid on steps as he ascended to the cheers of a thousand adoring subjects. In the daydream, Prompto was right behind him, flanked by Ignis and Gladio. In the daydream, he was right where he belonged. He was worthy. 

But tonight he didn’t stop for daydreams, instead pushing past the main staircase to what lay beyond. 

The throne room doors. 

They had haunted him, at first. They were too quiet, too still, too cold, a reminder of what lay beyond: the body of King Noctis Lucis Caelum, turned by magic to smooth stone. 

The first few nights, he had frozen here. Stared at his reflection in the black lacquer, hating the doors, hating them for sealing his best friend in a makeshift tomb. 

Then one night he found a box of thumbtacks in a drawer of his quarters and began methodically pinning them up: the photos. His photos. One after another, he plastered the doors with the glossy paper, drowning every square inch of cold lacquer with warmth. 

At first, looking upon his handiwork, he had sobbed. Moved to rip them all down, then stopped himself. He was determined to leave them there, a silent memorial to the fallen King’s youth.

In the morning, nobody asked where the photos had come from. No one commented on the pinholes which were bound to remain in the wood indefinitely. 

Prompto’s memorial remained, and as the days wore on, new photos and documents began to join the old, tacked up in passing by the Citadel personnel. 

There was Cor Leonis, the Marshal, addressing the people of Insomnia the day they chose him as interim King. 

There was Cindy, posing with the restored Regalia, hands planted on her hips as she gave the camera her proudest smile. 

There were Gladio and Ignis, moments later, enveloping the woman in a group hug. Over her shoulder, Prompto could just make out the tears rolling down Ignis’ face. 

There were Umbra and Pryna, sitting dutifully outside the throne room, staring at the doors as if they knew who was inside. As far as Prompto knew, they probably did. 

There were the volunteers working to restore their city piece by piece, cheerful despite the hard labor of moving slabs of marble. 

There was the peace treaty, signed after the concession of Niflheim. A promise to a brighter future. 

Slowly, slowly, the new had covered the old, replacing Prompto’s vigil to his fallen friend with something else entirely: a celebration. Of Noctis, of Lucis, of life, of the dawn that continued to come day after day after day.

And there, dead center, was an invitation to Noctis’ funeral procession, to be held the next day. 

Prompto stood for a few minutes, staring first at the invitation, then the photos surrounding it. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, they would open the throne room doors for only the second time since that fateful night. The remaining Crownsguard would lift Noctis’ body, turned to stone by the crystal’s dying magic, and carry it out into the streets. 

There would be a parade. Flowers. The citizens of Insomnia would flood the street, shrouded by black veils, the color of royalty turned so suddenly to the color of mourning. 

And then they would load Noctis onto the same boat which, once, had carried him to Altissia, back when there was still hope that Lady Lunafreya would meet him on the other side. Cid would steer them out into the water and across the sea, where he would be loaded onto another train and brought to Tenebrae where finally, finally, the King of Lucis and the Oracle might come to rest side by side, together at last in death. 

Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio would accompany their friend on this journey as they had his last. It was only right, Prompto thought, for the three to see Noctis’ story to the very end. 

For now, however, the Citadel was dark, the procession still hours away, and Prompto turned, walked away from the throne room doors and back towards the servants’ quarters.

And then he did something he had never done, not in three months’ worth of nights spent holding vigil in the Citadel’s halls. 

He knocked on Ignis’ door.

Prompto wasn’t surprised to find Ignis and Gladio awake, given what awaited them come morning. They sat side by side on the bed, but upon seeing Prompto, Gladio shifted to his right, patting the newly vacated space between himself and Ignis. They didn’t need words. Not anymore, not after all they’d been through together. 

Prompto sat down and no sooner had he sunk into the soft mattress than Ignis’ arm wound around his shoulders, Gladio’s hand moving to rub soothing circles on his back. 

And there, in final dark moments before morning, Prompto did something he hadn’t done since before Noctis walked away from him: he cried. Heaving, choking sobs long held in fought their way out of his lungs, forceful enough to hurt. 

In the morning, they would rise. Dressed in their finest regalia, they would put forth a display of strength, bravery, unity, they would walk tall through the avenues of Insomnia, a reminder to their people of the strength of the Crownsguard: unshaken. Unbroken. Strong. 

But that was hours away. Here, now, in the dark, they would be weak, if only for a few stolen moments before daybreak. They would remember. They would mourn. 

Prompto couldn’t say how long the three sat there, tangled together. His head found its way to Ignis’ shoulder, the fingers of his right hand tangling with Gladio’s free one. 

If he felt Ignis’ tears dampening his hair, he didn’t say anything about it. 

Behind them the sun began to rise, silhouetting the three men with the first rays of morning, illuminating their forms in rose-colored dawn as they leaned against one another and finally, finally allowed themselves to grieve. 

A new day dawned in Insomnia.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I said I was sorry, y'all. 
> 
> Come yell about your unresolved feelings about FFXV with me in the comments.


End file.
